


Lemon Trees

by SimplyLucia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 1930s, And Sandor tries to fit in, Eventually SanSan, F/M, Historical AU, Inspired by GoT 607 'The Broken Man', Kibbutz, Kibbutz AU, Modern AU, The Elder Brother funded a kibbutz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7203887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyLucia/pseuds/SimplyLucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor put away the knife with the other tools and scanned the long rows of lemon trees. The warm rays of sunshine fell caressing the deep green leaves, as they rustled in the breeze. For a long time, Sandor had stopped looking for a place he would call home, but for a second, as he contemplated this field bathed in sun on the hillside, he told himself that maybe, just <em>maybe</em> he belonged there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lemon Trees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahcakes613](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/gifts).



> Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin.  
> So… This is a somewhat Modern AU about Sandor living in a kibbutz. Yes, a kibbutz. Bookhoor and thejewishclaraoswald gave me the idea - should I say that Bookhoor made me do it?  
> If you’re familiar with kibbutzim, please be kind: I visited some, I find that life in communities is fascinating - which is why I wrote this in the first place - but I never stayed in a kibbutz.  
> Kibbutzim these days are so different from one another - and sometimes so different from the first ones - I decided to set this AU somewhere before WWII and in one of the areas where the first kibbutzim were funded: Jezreel Valley. Let’s face it, I’m a sucker for historical AUs :)  
> As this one-shot was inspired by one scene of 607 (‘The Broken Man’), where Sandor basically struggles to find his place in Brother Ray’s community, the pitch is very simple: how does a loner like Sandor try to fit in a close-knit community like a kibbutz? Is it even possible?  
> Written with love but without the help of a beta reader: if you spot a mistake, you can let me know.

The ache in his lower back told Sandor day’s work was almost over. Most of the others had already left and were probably seeking a spot in the shade or relaxing in the huts they called their houses. _But I can handle this on my own… Fuck, I can finish with the lemon trees._ Annoyed by the chirping of cicadas, he gritted his teeth and resumed his task, removing tree suckers, like he had seen the elders do. Sweat dripping off of his forehead until he could barely see what he was doing, muscles tight after hours spent in the fields under the relentless sun of the Jezreel Valley, he went on, checking the lemon trees and swiftly cutting the useless suckers with an old knife.

At first he had called it ‘his’ knife because it was the one he used most of the time, the one whose whitened handle he grabbed amongst the other tools, but six months in the kibbutz had taught him not to overuse possessive adjectives. Tools were communal, like the land they worked on and the buildings of the kibbutz. Even Sandor’s clothes weren’t his own.

It had been bloody strange at first to stay in the kibbutz, with people who had left everything in Europe to start a new life there, most of them bringing their families with them. When he thought about it, these were the two reasons why it was difficult for him to blend in: he had arrived there by accident and he was alone in a community where couples or families were the norm.

When work was over, men and women walked back to the children’s house to take their sons and daughters to their place and spend a couple of hours with them. _Grown-ups playing house. That’s what they’re doing, since they don’t see the kids during the rest of the day._ It was easy to mock them as he had no one to play with or to question about their day and he bloody knew it. That was why he used to linger in the fields instead of going to the hut he shared with old Josef.

He raised to his full height, wiped his brow and face with the back of his hand and flexed his fingers: a frayed dressing covered his index. Only his grunts and curses punctuated the chirping of cicadas, because the pain in his lower back became unbearable. _Fuck, I’m getting old..._

“So I guess the lemon trees can’t wait until tomorrow?”

Sandor turned around and shielded his eyes with his hand: in the late afternoon sun, the Elder Brother arrived, kicking up dust with each step.

“I knew I would find you here,” the man added with a smile.

His remark was met with a shrug. _Where else would I be?_

“Come with me, Sandor. I think we both need some water.”

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes and gave up, because it was difficult to say no to the Elder Brother.

The man had founded the community years ago, buying acres of supposedly unworkable land and since then, he had gathered people from all over Europe, drained the swamps, planted trees everywhere. The kibbutz’ oranges and lemons were sold on all the markets of the Valley and even further, to the great satisfaction of the kibbutzniks; after the harvest, trucks bounced along the dirt roads, taking the crates of citrus fruit to Afula, Tiberias and even to Haifa.

Sandor put away the knife with the other tools and scanned the long rows of lemon trees. The warm rays of sunshine fell caressing the deep green leaves, as they rustled in the breeze. For a long time, Sandor had stopped looking for a place he would call home, but for a second, as he contemplated this field bathed in sun on the hillside, he told himself that maybe, just _maybe_ he belonged there.

* * *

Supper was not a moment as lonely as the late afternoon, when husbands met their wives and parents were reunited with their children, but it had been awkward at first. As he walked through the crowded dining hall, finally sitting opposite to the Elder Brother, he noticed one of the last women arrived in the kibbutz stared at him with something akin to apprehension.

His scars frightened the children and aroused suspicion: Sandor was used to it. With the Elder Brother who had taken him to the kibbutz, the old Josef, a widower in his sixties, had been the first one to not show any sign of fear and to Sandor’s great surprise, he had volunteered to share his hut with him.

In all likelihood, the other kibbutzniks didn’t expect Josef to be so welcoming towards a man whose looks only inspired distrust. Sandor remembered a conversation he had overheard between the old man and a woman named Antonia, a couple of days after his arrival. Not that he intended to eavesdrop; inside the crowded kibbutz, having a private conversation with someone was quite a feat.

“How come you volunteered to share your room with this man? We don’t even know who he is and we should tell him to leave. That’s what my man says, anyway.”

Like all the women in the kibbutz, she said ‘my man’ instead of ‘my husband’ because the Hebrew word for ‘husband’ implied the man’s domination over his wife. Equality between men and women was sacred there, and somehow, Sandor prided himself on belonging to such a community.

As Josef didn’t answer, the woman insisted: “How can you even look at his scars?”

“You wonder if this man’s scars frighten me, Antonia? They don’t. They’re nowhere near as ugly as the things I saw before I fled my shtetl.”

Had the woman repeated Josef’s words to the rest of the community? From that day on, Sandor’s presence had never been questioned again and gradually, people had started looking at him in the eye.

His hard work had done the rest. Sandor had soon figured out that beneath their idealistic outward appearance and their tirades about women’s rights, kibbutzniks were pragmatists who recognized and respected one’s skills. He had fed on approving nods and words of encouragement; for a change, he was asked to build things and to tend to delicate plants instead of being praised for his ability to hurt and to kill.

The Elder Brother cleared his throat, thus reminding Sandor he was in the middle of a crowded room, surrounded by faces that had become familiar over the last months.

“You probably saw the truck from Afula earlier today?” the Elder Brother asked. “It brought a bunch of letters with the weekly supplies.”

Sandor shrugged. _As if I gave a fuck about your letters…_ There was no one on this earth to write to him.

“Newcomers will arrive from Haifa any day now. Five of them. The letter was sent a while ago but as the truck only comes here once a week…”

“What brings them in this godforsaken place?” Sandor’s question was met with deep frowns and silent glares. The kibbutzniks’ pride was inversely proportional to their sense of personal property.

The Elder Brother himself rolled his eyes before sighing: “The smell of gunpowder. Everyone knows there’s a war coming in Europe. It’s only a matter of months. Chamberlain is only fooling himself if he thinks he can avoid a war with the Reich.”

“So?” Sandor folded his arms about his chest. Some might have taken his offhandedness for indifference, but the Elder Brother knew better than that.

“So I’d like you to make sure we can accommodate these people. There’s work to do on two of the remaining huts. Can you start working on it tomorrow? Simon will help you.”

* * *

The Elder Brother had asked him to make repairs on two of the empty huts, assuming it would only take half a day or so; he had forgotten to mention the leaking roof and the rotten floorboard.

“We still have hours of work ahead,” Simon commented as he glanced outside. The sun was already going down and Sandor didn’t need to ask his companion to know he just wanted to go back to his sons and his wife.

“We’ll finish tomorrow,” Sandor approved, even though he knew he would stay there and work on the damn door which swollen wood made every opening and closing troublesome. How could he prevent a man from spending time with his family?

Simon gave him the faintest of smiles before he walked away. A long time ago, a man people called the Hound would have taken it for a smirk, he would have seen provocation there and he would have pounced on the man to beat the crap out of him. This man was dead though - anyway that was what the Elder Brother kept saying. Sandor had reached a point where he read in this smile things that still confused him but were _there_ , nonetheless: sheepishness - because the man acknowledged he had a family Sandor didn’t have -, a hint of gratefulness and kindness too. In Simon’s brown eyes there was no trace of pity and Sandor felt thankful for it although he was unable to articulate this feeling.

The shadows lengthened and in the end, his feet walked of their own accord to the lemon trees. For how long did he stay there? The sky was purple when he heard someone behind him.

“I’ve always wondered why you like lemon trees so much,” the Elder Brother said softly.

Sandor remained silent. The Elder Brother knew more about him than anyone else, but there were things he liked to keep for himself. Lemon trees gave lemons and Sandor Clegane had a blue-eyed, red-haired reason to cherish lemons. Chances were, he’d never see her again, but there was always a possibility that some of the lemons harvested in the kibbutz ended up in a cake she’d eat. _You never know._

* * *

Simon and Sandor had put on a spurt to make sure the huts were ready before the newcomers’ arrival, but the next truck coming from Haifa didn’t bring anyone, disappointing the kids who hoped they’d make new friends and all those who expected news from the city or from Europe. In the close-knit but secluded  community, people from the outside world brought with them novelty and were usually bombarded with questions by the kibbutzniks.

Sandor was much more cautious: newcomers’ stares always reminded him of his scars, of his less than comely appearance and of his difference. He would never tell the others, but before each arrival, he used to bet with old Josef that the newcomers were families. Josef, who was a bit of a sucker sometimes, retorted the next person to come might be a widow or some confirmed old bachelor. Instead of money, the loser would offer a beer to the winner, the only small luxury they could afford. Sandor had never lost a bet in the last four months and he told himself that this time too, the belated newcomers would be a family with young children.

And finally, at the end of the afternoon, almost two weeks after the Elder Brother had received a letter saying five persons would soon join the kibbutzniks, a dust cloud on the dirt road announced their upcoming arrival. As usual, the children rushed at the gates, eager to see new faces. Sandor shook his head at their impatience, but his smile didn’t fool the eldest of the boys, who smiled back at him.

“Come on, Sandor, wait with us!” said Odette, one of the little girls. “If these people are nice we will sing for them.” She didn’t say what would happen if they were not as nice as she thought they’d be; at five, the kibbutz was all she knew and she probably couldn’t fathom why people wouldn’t nice to her.

“Also, I can’t see much,” she added, craning her neck to look at him in the eye.

Standing behind the other kids who were older and taller, little Odette couldn’t see the road and the truck bumping along on it.

Even before Sandor sighed, Odette started jumping up and down with excitement because she had read in his eyes he couldn’t say no to her. He hoisted her up with a fake grunt of effort, making the little girl squeal with joy.

Once sitting on Sandor’s shoulders, Odette taunted the other boys and girls, saying she saw better than any of them, even though the dust cloud was the only thing in sight.

When the truck finally pulled over in front of the dining hall, the kids gathered themselves around the vehicle and Odette kicked Sandor’s chest until he stepped forward to see who had decided to join the community. _I’m gonna win my bet again and tonight, Josef will offer me a beer._

A man in his thirties got out of the car, followed by a dark-haired woman who seemed to be his wife. Both wore black woolen clothes too warm for the local weather; a toddler and a girl who wasn’t much older than Odette were in their wake. The couple’s children looked surprised by the kids’ warm welcome and the youngest hid himself behind his father’s legs.

 _Another family,_ Sandor told himself. _I fucking win._ Sometimes victory had a bitter taste and only Odette’s fingers tangled in his hair distracted him from his thoughts, until the car door on the other side of the truck suddenly opened and closed. _The Elder Brother said they were supposed to be five,_ Sandor remembered.

The kids were already running around the truck, welcoming the fifth newcomer who disappeared in the melee. Then the kids seemed to regain a semblance of calm and Sandor saw her. Red curls and big blue eyes under a wide-brimmed hat. His heart skipped a beat.

“She looks nice,” Odette observed.

“She is,” he heard himself mutter.


End file.
